A friend of mine and her husband were kind enough to loan us their new condo in Estero for March break. It’s in a breathtaking place called Pelican Sound, mere minutes from the Ft. Myers airport, yet miles away from anywhere.
Behind the gates of Pelican Sound are 1,300 condos, townhomes, coach houses and carriage homes nestled around two golf courses, a half-dozen pools, a cluster of tennis courts and a boat launch. However, what they don’t put on the brochure is the real treasure of the place. The barbecue stations.
Every pool has one. Six high-powered butane miracle machines. They may appear pedestrian as they stand in neat rows, shaded by brush, with a patio table in between. But their power is undeniable. No forewarning could have had me prepared for their might.
It was Day 1 of our stay (if you count arrival day as Day 0. If not, call it Day 2. Please use whatever holiday vernacular best suits you). On Day 1, we did our annual Target pilgrimage in the morning. The boys love that store, almost filling a shopping cart with Shaun White clothing and other bargains.
Dad’s not immune either, picking up a few things, and my parents (Target novices) were over the moon with the place. As great as it will be that Target will soon put Zellers out of its misery, the Canadian arrival of this retailing nirvana will eliminate one commercial treat of our Florida travels.
But I sentimentalize!
After Target, we decided to grab a quick lunch at some place called Hemingway’s in the Coconut Mall. In no way to be confused with Hemis in Yorkville. Disaster did not take long to strike.
My 10 year old slammed the bathroom door on my eight year old’s hand, by accident, but we soon had a busted thumb to deal with.
Rest assured the rest of the day was filled with pharmacy visits, icing of the hand, painkillers and a much-too-delayed trip to the walk-in clinic the next day.
The good news: it wasn’t broken. The bad news: he couldn’t go swimming, play tennis, go biking for a week. Great start to the vacay!
Faced with an uncertain game plan, I trundled off to the BBQs that eve to grill up some ingredients for a little Mexican din din.
Finding an empty grill, I noticed the other two chefs-in-residence understood some of the nuances I didn’t. First, I had no beer. What type of spatulant was I? Further, I had no snacks. No nachos. No dip. No chips. No pretzels. It was very clear to the others that I was either:
A. A BBQ virgin.
B. A Pelican Sound virgin.
C. Hired help for the white woman who kept showing up and telling me what to do.
D. All of the above and too stupid to tell my wife that I could manage the meat.
Embarrassed, I tried to avoid eye contact until I could slip back up to the condo and return with a cold one.
Feeling much more at ease, I was able to make eye contact with the other grillers. Taking a swig, my confidence was restored, especially when I unveiled my tortilla chips and salsa. Before long, I was deeply immersed in a pattern of conversation that repeated itself the other five nights that I hung out with the other BBQ boys.
“Where are you from?” Chicago, Toronto, Ottawa, Oakville, St. Louis, Detroit…
“How long you down for?” We are for a week…until the beginning of April…we have to go home tomorrow…we live here year round now.
“Do you have a place here?” We borrowed from friends…we are renting from a neighbour…we leased from a guy trying to sell.
It never lasted long, we rarely got past first names, but it was a 20-minute ritual that became the highlight of my day. If I headed to the pit and no smoke was billowing, I would be sad to the point of considering a kitchen delay. But invariably someone would show up and off we would go down the get-to-know-you-in-a-hurry expressway.
The conversations took a couple of unique twists. I met a guy who had just had a knee replacement and was lined up for another. His scar made me realize, I’m a wimp. Met some Ohio State fans who were convinced they were going to win the NCAA men’s basketball crown. I even met the father of one my employees. Now that’s a small world.
The best person I met was “Ohio.” When I first saw Ohio, I knew there was something different about him. I didn’t notice the halo at first, but there it was, glistening and bright just a few inches above his bald 60-something noggin of a head.
Yes, I met an angel at the BBQ pit. It’s true!
When Ohio saw my youngster’s thumb (he came to visit Dad in the BBQ pit to see why I was so happy), his sympathy resulted in a suggestion that made our trip. Ohio the angel said, “Take him to Flippers, that will cheer him up.”
So we did.
Flippers is at Lovers Key Resort, a non-descript tower next to a bridge just off Hickory Island. It’s a wisp of a restaurant, all outdoors, holding only 60 people. It’s probably like a thousand other places in the south. A charming, bleached blond, rapidly aging bartender. Who makes a mean Hurricane. A harried bald host, who probably came down from Syracuse for spring break in 1975 and forgot to leave. Chatty patrons gathered at the few bar stools all patiently waiting for their name to be called. A sunset that suggested we’d see dolphins dancing in the surf.
Flippers was everything the angel said it would be. I can still smell the Mahi off my pate mixed with the salt of the sea.
On your next vacation, look for the hallowed grounds of the BBQ. It is heaven. I’ve met an angel to prove it.